


Don't Quit Playing

by SophiaCatherine



Category: DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV), The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Amaya Jiwe/Zari Adrianna Tomaz (background), Canon-Typical Violence, Humor, M/M, QPR-coldwave, Queerplatonic Relationships, Retirement, Slice of Life, but with plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-10
Updated: 2018-01-10
Packaged: 2019-03-03 03:02:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13332105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SophiaCatherine/pseuds/SophiaCatherine
Summary: The criminals have retired. Len is feeling a bit lost. Fortunately, he has Mick... and Mick has his co-conspirators.





	Don't Quit Playing

**Author's Note:**

> “Men do not quit playing because they grow old; they grow old because they quit playing.” - Oliver Wendell Holmes
> 
> Inspired by [everyperfectsummer’s](https://archiveofourown.org/users/everyperfectsummer/pseuds/everyperfectsummer) fantastic [coldwave solstice moodboard](http://airyalmost.tumblr.com/post/168947124595/sophiacfandom-here-is-your-winter-pagan). Totally not inspired by the clock ticking down to my 40th birthday.

Len’s standing under a tree at 3 a.m. in the pouring rain, while Mick’s up in the branches trying to retrieve a rogue cat. And he’s trying to remember exactly when his quiet, retired life went off the rails.

“This is BARRY’S FAULT,” he yells up at Mick.

“Most things are,” Mick calls back cheerfully, grabbing uselessly at the cat. It’s a tiny, black-and-white ball of fluff which may actually be connected to the Speed Force. Every time Mick reaches for it, it scuttles higher up the tree. “Um. How, though?”

Len thinks.

_“He’d come out of retirement for a cat up a tree,” Barry had said._

That was the moment.

Len considers powering up the cold gun and hunting the speedster down. But there’s still the cat to save — no, to _deal with_. They’re still villains, and villains don’t save anybody. Not even cats.

* * *

TWO WEEKS EARLIER

Imagine a house. A big house, in one of the nicer Central City suburbs. Not so big as to be showy, mind you, but big enough. Black wooden double doors and shuttered lattice windows. A top-of-the-range alarm system above the door. A front patio surrounded by a tasteful garden. Out back, a big garage, and a very tidy yard with a gazebo and a landscaped fish pond. Who, you might wonder, lives behind those doors?

Criminals.

Well, ex-criminals, technically. Two very _effective_ ex-criminals, who once acquired rather a lot of money, didn’t know quite what to do with it, then left it in some good hands for a bit while they had a sudden fit of hero-ing and ran off with a time-travelling circus. Many adventures and some (eventually-)temporary death later, they returned home to matured annuities and decided it was time to retire.

Outside those nice black double doors stands one Mick Rory. Who is trying to open them with only his elbows.

Eventually he manages, once he adds some kicking, and stumbles in. His hands are occupied with eight full grocery bags. “Back,” he yells, and the door swings shut behind him. He starts down the long hallway. Then he stops, comes back, takes his shoes off, and puts them in the neat shoe rack by the door.

He carries the bags through into the kitchen, where Len is chopping vegetables. “I got everything except potatoes,” he says. “They didn’t look right - all knobbly. Got sweet potatoes and squash to roast instead.”

Len doesn’t reply. Just keeps chopping, side-leaning into the island as he does. (Dark mahogany with marble countertops. Mick spent a week installing that kitchen.)

“What?” Mick asks, as he puts groceries into the fridge-freezer. (Frigidaire, the biggest they could get. Mick likes to open up the double doors and have lots of space to peruse his food choices at his leisure. Lenny likes to organise the shelves. Mick isn’t sure if he does it by expiration date order, category of food, or possibly alphabetically.)

“Nothing,” Len replies, eventually.

Mick stops, and looks at him. Then shrugs. “Fine, don’t tell me.” He goes back to the fridge. “The Wests say what time they planning on getting here?”

“Seven. And it’s the Allens, Mick. Or the West-Allens.”

Mick grunts. “Don’t see why it’s gotta be. Her name’s as good as his. Anyway. The kid and Iris.”

“The kid who’s, what, 38 now?”

“Yeah. Him.” Mick finishes at the fridge, and comes over to lean against the island next to Len. He sneaks half a carrot.

“Quit it,” Len grumbles, attempting to slap his hand away, but Mick’s quicker than he looks.

“Not if you won’t tell me what’s up,” he says through a full mouth, and Len rolls his eyes. “Just gonna get in the way till you do.”

Len sighs. “I’ll be cheerful. Look, cheering up.” He picks up an open beer bottle from the counter and drinks from it, then toasts Mick in a manner that is both lazy and dramatic. “ _Cheers_.”

Mick grabs another from the fridge. “I got pudding to make.” He pulls out a couple of mixing bowls. “This what you been doing all day?”

“Mostly,” Len says. “Oh, Amaya called. They’re back for a couple of weeks. Says to call her whenever.”

Mick grunts in reply. Then, sticking his head in a cupboard: “Did Lisa bring back my mixer?”

“Yesterday. It’s in the box in the garage.”

Mick wanders out via the back door that leads through to the garage. An ostentatious classic car sits in the middle of the floor space (Jaguar, black exterior, red interior. Mick’s been restoring it himself). Next to it is a station wagon, which is their actual, less conspicuous ride. The rest of the space is taken up with a couple of workbenches. There’s a half-finished jigsaw puzzle on one and a hiking trail map on another. Hooks for random bits of equipment line the walls. Hanging in the corner, there’s a dusty parka.

He grabs the box and comes back through. As he does, he catches Len watching him. “What’d I do?” he protests.

“Nothing.” Len drops his eyes and sighs.

“Oh, for god’s sake.” He moves back to Len’s side. “What is with this grumpy thing and do you need a hug?”

“I do not need a hug.”

“Are you lying about needing a hug because you’re in a _we don’t do touchy-feely_ mood, or…?”

Len snorts. “ _Please_ do not hug me.”

Instead, Mick rests his right hand flat on the counter, palm up. It’s an old thing from their early days, when Len was too skittish to let Mick touch him very often.

Len tilts his head quizzically. Then, after a moment, he reaches over and laces his fingers through Mick’s. Mick watches as he brushes his thumb over the black ring on Mick’s middle finger. Then he leans back and looks at Mick, clearly trying to hide a fond smile. “You disaster,” he says.

“Yeah. Well. You’re an asshole,” Mick replies.

Len grins.

Mick pulls out a set of plates (Waterford china) and gets ready to set the table.

* * *

It’s 8pm in the dining room, dinner plates cleared away, Mick bustling in and out of the kitchen. Iris and Barry are having a conversation about metahuman registration that Len should be interested in, but doesn’t feel like joining in with right now. He picks absently at a piece of bread, only vaguely noticing that the conversation has moved to the subject of the house.

“Gotta say, this place is… bigger than I expected,” Barry says. He’s looking around the room, admiringly. “Nice, though. Really nice.”

Len looks up. “Mick liked the house. So we got it,” he says.

“You don’t?” Iris asks.

He shrugs. “It’s OK.”

“Babe, you’re staring,” Iris says to Barry.

“It’s a _really_ nice house,” Barry says. “Can we get lattice windows?”

“We’re still paying for the last three times the Flash’s enemies broke in through the old ones.”

“What? I never did that,” Len says defensively when she glares at him, apparently out of habit. She shifts into a grin.

Barry looks over at him, then - more thoughtfully than Len’s comfortable with. “Quite a step up from the cabins on the Waverider!” he says.

“Yup.” Len goes quiet again, tapping his glass. The ice clinks faintly against the sides. He’s counting seconds, he realises.

“Snart,” Barry says, a bit sternly.

“Yeah.”

“Do you not like it here?”

He sighs. “It ain’t that. Not really. It’s - a lot,” he admits. His thoughts drift treacherously to decades of cold, sparse safe houses. To his father’s house. He drags himself back to the present. “But it’s fine. Makes Mick happy, that’s good enough for me.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

Iris is studying him, twitching at the edges of a smile. “You’re bored,” she says.

“What? Am not.”

“You are!” she laughs.

Barry grins. “What is it - retirement not feeding your hero complex, Snart?”

Iris giggles.

Len raises his index finger at them. “One, I do not have one of those.”

“ _Sure,_ ” Barry says in a decent, if irritating, imitation of Len’s drawl.

Len glares at him and raises a second finger. “Two, I am _absolutely_ not bored. I’m finally getting to do all the things I never had the time, opportunity or inclination to do before. What are _you_ doing with your time now, Mr. Advisor to the Senate on the metahuman registration debate? Should I be jealous of your burgeoning bureaucratic career? It sounds just _fascinating._ ”

“Consultant, not advisor,” Barry murmurs. Then he hums. “You really don’t want out of retirement?”

“Ain’t nothing gonna get us out of retirement,” Mick says, the swing doors to the kitchen clattering behind him. “Life’s grand.” He’s got an enormous unidentified pudding balanced on one hand and an only-slightly-smaller cheesecake on the other. He puts them with the chocolate cake that’s already on the table. “Irish apple pudding,” he says, gesturing at the bowl.

“There’s four of us, Mick,” Iris says, although her eyes are wide in the general direction of the apple pudding.

“One of you’s a speedster. And I got a big kitchen now. And time to cook.”

Barry grins at Len. “Lots and _lots_ of time, I’m hearing.”

“Barry, I will shoot you.”

“Do you even still _own_ the cold gun?”

Mick serves Iris an enormous helping of pudding. “‘Course he still got the gun,” Mick says. “It’s in the garage - somewhere. When d’you last charge it, Lenny?”

“I am always on standby for a city emergency!” Len protests weakly.

“Gun’s on standby. Not sure about you,” Mick retorts.

“You wanna pull a heist right now?” Len growls at him.

“Ah, I miss those,” Mick muses, while Barry glares at them, mildly and possibly also just out of habit. “Don’t matter, though,” Mick goes on. “Like I said. Ain’t nothing getting us out of retirement.”

“He,” Barry points at Len with a fork, “would come out of retirement for a cat up a tree.” He stabs a bit of cheesecake onto the end of the fork.

“God, this is good,” Iris says through a mouthful of pudding.

“There’s another one in the fridge for you to take home to the twins,” Mick says. She gives him a delighted smile.

Len stares.

Then he thinks, for a long moment.

Then he settles on chocolate cake.

* * *

“I don’t know what to tell you, Amaya.” Mick attempts to walk away from the wall, then he remembers that he can’t. Because their phone is attached to it with a cord. Because Len thought it was it was retro. Oh sure, he can claim _it’s way easier to trace a cellphone these days, Mick_ all he wants, but a) Mick knows that’s a complete lie, and b) no one’s tracing their calls anymore - they’re retired. And he was pardoned by the President. Not Lenny, though - he was dead. Wait, what was he saying? Right, Amaya. “He just seems really… down. I even got Barry and Iris to come over. But Lenny hardly said two words to 'em. Barry thinks he’s bored.”

_“Is he?”_

Mick pauses. It hadn’t really occurred to him to take Barry seriously. “Dunno,” he admits. “Could be? But he’s doing lots of things.”

_“Like?”_

“Taking classes, for one. I’m pretty sure he’s _teaching_ half of 'em.”

_“In what?”_

“Um.” Mick tries to remember. He’s totally been listening when Len talks about it. “Electrical engineering, couple of history classes, something science-y, something to do with crime scenes - Barry doesn’t approve of that one - um, he tried cooking class, wasn’t any good at that, Lisa took him to a dance one, he wasn’t any good at _that_ , um—”

 _“Mick,”_ Amaya interrupts, giggling. _“He’s bored.”_

“Orienteering!” Mick finishes triumphantly, remembering the last one. “And - huh.” He pauses. “Do I gotta fix that?”

_“Depends. How much do you like the quiet life?”_

“I like it.” He turns on the coffee machine. (Delonghi, does it all at the touch of the button. He doesn’t like those little pods that are killing the environment, though, so he’s thinking of getting a different one.)

 _“Then it depends how much you like_ him. _”_

“Oh.” Well. That could be... tricky. He changes the subject. “How’s that girl of yours?”

_“She does not like the 40s. You think you’ve got problems? She wants me to find a way to bring the internet there.”_

He laughs. “Rip said no, did he?”

_“Don’t tempt me, I might just ask. But then we would both be out of a job, and working in this decade is keeping her sane."_

Mick laughs. “She’ll get used to it. You’re worth it.”

_“I’d say the same about you, but you’ll make a disbelieving noise.”_

“Hmph.”

_“Told you. Anyway, gotta run. We’re only here for a week, and Zari has a list of movies a mile long she wants to watch before we, and I quote, ‘go back to the godforsaken decade that time forgot’.”_

“Thought you were here to work.”

_“Among other things,” Amaya laughs. “You let me know how it goes, OK?”_

“Sure will. Take care, darling.”

 _“Will do.”_ She hangs up.

The coffee’s finished making itself before he realises that he’s been standing, just staring into space, for a while.

* * *

TWO WEEKS LATER

Len stops dead, the sandwich halfway to his mouth.

“ _Mick!_ ” he yells upstairs.

Apparently his tone has communicated the intended level of urgency, because Mick’s running down the stairs a second later. “You OK?”

Len silently points at the TV screen.

_“—now take you live to downtown Central City, where an unknown male assailant in possession of a cold gun is terrorising the city. With no sign of the Flash or Killer Frost, the police are struggling to—”_

“Lenny,” Mick says slowly. “Tell me they’ve improved security at STAR Labs since we were last there. _Please_ tell me that.”

Len returns the sandwich to the plate and grabs the phone.

_“—while two are in a critical condition—”_

“He’s already shot people,” Mick is saying, eyes wide.

“Come _on,_ Barry…” Len chants at the phone.

“Did ya not hear on the news? They can’t find him - he’s not gonna answer. Something’s wrong.”

“We are in a city full of metahumans and superheroes!” Len says. “What the fuck? How can they not be here?”

“The Star City gang?” Mick grasps at the suggestion, straw-like.

“Too far away,” Len says. “And no experience fighting a cold gun.”

Mick raises an eyebrow at him.

“I don’t even remember when I last charged it!” Len says, desperately.

“It’s charged and fuelled up,” Mick reassures him. “They both are.”

Len would love to stop and think about what that means, but he doesn’t have time. He doesn’t even have a plan. He can’t do this without a plan. But Mick is already running for the back door. “Come on, Boss!” he yells.

Len doesn’t think. He just follows him.

In the garage, Mick has already thrown himself into the front seat of the station wagon, fireman’s jacket on. He shoves an arm out of the window and points to the spot, in a dark corner of the garage, where both guns are charging under a bench. Len grabs them and tosses the heat gun onto the back seat and hangs on to the cold gun. Then he absently grabs a coat off a hook before jumping into the passenger seat.

It’s not until they’re half way down the street that Len realises which coat he’s wearing.

* * *

The pretender is on one of Central’s main boulevards. It looks like the police have cleared it of bystanders. As they drive, based on what he saw on the news, Len calculates the other cold gun’s range. “Stop here,” he tells Mick, and has the car door open before Mick has finished screeching to a stop. Len leaps out, cold gun held aloft.

About 100 feet away, the fraud attempts to stand them down. He’s wearing a white parka, definitely modelled on Captain Cold’s. He holds himself in a poor imitation of Len’s pose, cold gun held up parallel to his body. He appears to be wearing a pair of cheap swimming goggles.

“And who,” Len calls out in a drawl, “do you think _you_ are?”

“You can call me Chill,” he shouts back.

Mick’s laughter booms around them.

“I don’t think you’re nearly _cool_ enough for that moniker,” Len says, clear and strong.

Len and Mick stride down the dark street, guns raised, perfectly in sync.

The fraud, who has clearly _not_ calculated the range of his gun, shoots in their direction, then runs forward and tries again. Len and Mick slide in opposite directions out of the immediate path of the cold field, then start shooting their own guns.

“Trying to claim my crown, _Chill_?” Len calls. If he’s a little out of breath, he thinks he doing well at hiding it. “I think you’ll find there’s only room for one cold gun in this neighborhood, and it’s mine.”

“Not anymore,” Chill yells back. “You got old, Cold! I’m gonna follow in your footsteps - you should be flattered.”

Mick is roaring and shooting wildly, but the guy’s fast.

“By this poor imitation? _Hardly_ ,” Len hurls back. He jumps out of the way as another stream of absolute cold is aimed in his direction. It was close, this time. He’s not as fast as he used to be. Looking around for something to use as a shield, he grabs the lid of an old steel trash can. He has it in front of him just in time, the cold field bouncing off it. A second burst, and the shield collapses. Len raises his gun, hits a button to change a setting, and shoots defensively - he’s not aiming to kill this asshole, but just incapacitating him is a challenge.

The cold beam hits. Chill goes down.

Mick whoops, eyes wide, gun still blazing. “YOU CAN’T TELL ME YOU HAVEN’T MISSED THIS!” he yells at Len.

Len tilts his head. “It’s _possible,_ ” he drawls. Mick throws back his head and laughs in reply.

Len advances on the imposter, who is on the floor and dazed but not knocked out, his gun thrown to the other side of the street. Kneeling down, Len hits him over the head with his cold gun. “He’s a kid,” he observes, taking a closer look at the now-unconscious Chill.

Mick saunters over. “Huh,” he says. “He really is. What’s with all these young vigilantes and villains lately?”

“Too much motivation,” Len says. “All trying to pay for college. Still,” he smiles, “age before beauty. You gotta work your way up to a gun like this.” He cradles his own respectfully.

“Sure, Boss,” Mick grins.

Dusting off his hands, Len surveys the scene, as cops arrive from three directions ready to descend on Chill. “Oh yeah. I still got it,” he tells Mick triumphantly. Then he tries to stand up. “Um. Ow?”

Mick rushes over. “He hurt you, Boss?” he says with concern.

“No... my back…” Len mumbles.

“What?”

“I think I put my back out!” he snaps.

"Oh, fuck." Mick helps him up. “You gonna need a doc?”

“No,” he sighs, stretching. “But I might be getting too old for this shit.”

“Nah,” Mick says. “Reckon you got a few years in you yet.”

“Maybe,” Len concedes. He looks at the gun - its indicator lights have gone out. “Well, shit. Think that knock on the head shook something loose here. It’s been sitting around the house too long.”

Mick’s eyebrows go up. He grins.

“Oh, shut up.”

He leans into Mick for a second, and they walk back to the side street where Mick dumped the car, going just a little slower than usual.

As they reach the car, there’s a noise somewhere behind them. “Captain Cold!” says an elderly lady, loudly, appearing out of nowhere. He jumps about a foot in the air.

When he recovers he turns and politely says, “Hello, ma’am.”

She’s wearing a hand-knitted woolly hat and a giant striped scarf. “Well,” she says, “am I glad to see you heroes!” She gestures at Mick as well. Len has to fight the urge to cringe at the H-word. “I was just praying for a miracle, and here you two are! I’ve got this little cat, see? And he’s stuck up—” she points behind them “—that tree. Now can you young men just run up there and get him for me? I’d be so very grateful.”

Young men? She’s maybe 10 years older than them.

Len looks at Mick, who is doing everything he can to suppress laughter. So it’s just Len who’s not finding this funny, then.

“Of course, ma’am,” Len sighs. “We’ll get your cat.”

* * *

They get the cat out of the tree.

It’s totally not Len’s fault that, as Mick passes the demonic little feline down to him, the cat jumps out of Len’s arms and scratches his face. And that, in the ensuing struggle, the cold gun - which was apparently more damaged than he realised - goes off in the direction of Mick’s arm.

The woman, who never notices Mick’s injury, takes her cat away with effusive relief.

Len’s about to start panicking at Mick’s frostbitten arm.

With excellent timing, this is is the point at which a red-clad speedster skids to a stop in front of them. “You guys!” he beams.

Len suspects that the look on his own face matches Mick’s deeply unimpressed expression.

“You _guys!_ ” Barry says again.

“ _Barry_ ,” Len says, in an ice-cold tone. “What the fuck? _Where_ the fuck…?”

“You’re LATE!” Mick yells.

“Right, yeah. I’m so sorry. We had a - situation. Thank you so much for handling it.” His smile is as bright as his lightning, and as ridiculous as it ever was.

Len finds he has missed it.

And Barry’s still talking. “I’m really, really sorry. We were on another earth.”

“And you _meta-minds_ left Central unattended?” Len barks. Mick, holding his arm, simultaneously says something equally pissed-off.

“No! Well, yes, but temporarily, because emergency! It’s a long story.” Then he catches sight of Mick’s arm. “Oh god! Wounded in the attack? I’m so sorry, Mick!”

Mick looks at Len.

Len looks back at him.

“Yes,” Len says, straight-faced. “He was _quite_ the hero. You got something for that back at STAR Labs, Scarlet?”

“Right, yes, of course!” Barry says. He nods at Len’s car. “You’ll follow us there?”

“Don’t need ya,” Mick says. “Go take care of your - you know. The problem.”

“ _Fine,_ ” Len sighs dramatically, quietly grateful for Mick’s unusual tact. 

Before they speed away, Len catches a definite _look_ exchanged between Barry and Mick.

He chooses not to think about it.

* * *

A couple of days later, Mick’s back at STAR Labs. He tries his combination in the door keypad, and rolls his eyes when he finds it still works.

“Hey,” he growls at Barry, who’s standing alone in the Cortex, looking at display screens. “You know my code from three years ago still works on the door?”

“Oh,” Barry says sheepishly. “No, I didn’t know that.”

“Whatever, kid. We’re all bored of telling you to sort your security.” He hands over the cold gun. “You can fix it, yeah?”

“Cisco can.”

“Great. Lenny wants to talk to him about some improvements.”

“Of course he does.”

Mick studies him. “You really trusted us, huh?”

Barry rubs the back of his neck nervously. “There _was_ actually an emergency. We’ve been dealing with a… _thing_ on Earth 19. Caitlin was holding down the fort, and then they needed help in Coast City, and she —”

“I believe ya,” Mick interrupts. He feels a smile spread slowly across his face. “But you didn’t rush back too fast when things went off the rails, did you?”

Barry smiles. “I trusted you,” he admits.

Mick grins. “He did need to have a bit more fun, didn’t he?”

Barry nods, still smiling. “Think you can persuade him to have a bit more of that kind of fun more often?”

“‘Course I can. Just as long as he thinks it’s his idea.”

“Of course,” Barry agrees. “So. When are you guys coming over to our place for dinner? The twins want to play backyard hockey with Uncle Mick and Uncle Len. Also they want more of your pudding. Apparently mine and Iris’s doesn’t compare.”

“Hmph. Guess I do owe you one,” Mick grins.

“Oh shush, you love those kids.”

“Well. They talk a lot more sense than their parents.”

* * *

Amaya is having minor hysterics on the other end of the line. Mick waits patiently for her to finish.

 _“That -”_ she gasps, _“is the best thing I’ve heard in ages.”_

“You’re welcome,” he replies, grinning even though she can’t see it.

_“What are you going to do if he finds out Barry... encouraged him into the field?”_

“He won’t. I’m way sneakier than everyone thinks.”

_“Oh, I know,” she laughs._

“And even if he does - he ain’t gonna mind that much. He’s cheered right up.”

_“But you know this doesn’t solve your problem long-term, right?”_

“We’ve got him in the ring now,” he argues. “He’s at STAR today, and all. But he can decide what he wants to do. If he wants to get back in the game - well. Not gonna stop him.”

_“But you know that could mean giving up the retired life?”_

“Nah. He doesn’t really want to go back to heists and safe houses. He thought he did, maybe. But he just wants a bit more fun. I can manage that. And even if he really does want to give it all up…” He trails off.

_“What?”_

Mick looks around the kitchen. At the marble-top counters. The expensive appliances. The lattice windows. The door to the garage, with the smoking hot car in it. And a parka hanging on a hook, and a cold gun on standby on a bench.

“There’s more important things.”

He says goodbye and hangs up just as Len comes in through the back door. “How’s STAR Labs?” he asks.

Len sprawls against the other side of island, opposite Mick. “Good,” he replies, with just a touch of a drawl. “Cisco’s not always there these days, but Barry thinks he can get him to come over and help with the modifications I was thinking about. I said maybe I’ll help 'em out in return.” He glances at Mick, face betraying concern. “Just when they need me, you know,” he says, more cautiously. “Now and then.”

Mick stops what he’s doing and looks up at him. Len’s still got his goggles around his neck. There’s a sparkle in his blue eyes, a crooked smirk dancing on his lips. Mick reaches out across the counter, palm up.

Len smiles, and takes hold of his hand.

**Author's Note:**

> Extra content warning for food - it features a fair bit. (Mick Rory likes to cook.)
> 
> Dual tagging is a convention I use for QPRs and/or ambiguous relationships.
> 
> The reference to Mick's ring is to the black ring that [some asexual people wear](http://wiki.asexuality.org/Black_ring).
> 
> Thanks to [everyperfectsummer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/everyperfectsummer/pseuds/everyperfectsummer) for being an amazing beta reader, and for saying "They'd come out of retirement for a cat up a tree" and starting me off. Also to [areyouarealmonster](https://archiveofourown.org/users/areyouarealmonster/pseuds/areyouarealmonster) for advice and a contribution!
> 
> I love comments and always reply!
> 
> On tumblr [here](https://sophiainspace.tumblr.com/)


End file.
